The Summoning
by fbeauchamphartz
Summary: Kurt has just been jilted by his long-time boyfriend for the last time, and he's going to do something about it. Warning for mention of killing a bird (which doesn't happen). Inspired by the anon prompt Kurt!witch. Kurt H. Blaine A.
1. Chapter 1

**Warning for mention of killing a bird (which doesn't happen), witchcraft, dark!Blaine, witch!Kurt, eventual sexual content and romantic relationship.**

 **Inspired by the anon prompt Kurt!witch. (This will most likely be continued as one-shots in the future :D)**

Kurt sniffles in the dark. Candles flicker on around him, called to light themselves by his presence in the room.

"Goddamned motherfucking son-of-a-bitch!" he mutters as he walks through his living room and into the kitchen, tiny flames springing to life all around him. "I should have known this would happen. I should have … _ugh_! I should have just known …" Kurt storms into his pantry, one hand dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief, the other knocking aside bottles and jars on the shelves, reaching between to grab this and that - a wax bag filled with dried herbs, a root hiding among his box of Rooster-O's cereal and his bamboo basket of _Belladonna_ , some jezebel oil handed down to him from his mother.

Two mewling cats, ebony coats brushed to a glossy sheen, rush to his side. They circle his feet as he walks, barely missing the pointed toes of his shoes, singing their concern.

"Oh, Tabitha, Esme, I'm such an idiot," he laments to the persistent creatures as he carries his wares to the granite-topped island in the kitchen. "I _know_ I'm an idiot. This is the _third_ time. The THIRD TIME I fucking forgave him! I can't _believe_ I forgave him!"

He blows his nose in his handkerchief while he lays out his ingredients, barely paying attention when he snaps his fingers and his topmost cabinet bursts open. A bulky leather book shoots out and flies across the kitchen, landing heavily amid the bottles, tipping a few of them over. Kurt snaps again and the book opens, pages flipping back and forth till it finds the hex he's looking for. Both cats jump up on the counter, leaping straight from the floor as if the four feet up was simply a skip. Esme glances over the pages, then meows to Tabitha. Tabitha looks it over, too, and meows worriedly at Kurt.

"I know, I know." Kurt reaches for an abalone shell to mix his ingredients in. "No hexes. Mom said they eat at the soul." Tears roll down Kurt's cheeks. He bows his head in anger, in sorrow, and in shame. Shame at letting himself be lead on. Shame at not seeing the man he was nearly engaged to for the jackal he is. Shame at being driven to this point. "But … but you weren't there, Tabby! You didn't see! He _deserves_ it!"

Tabitha and Esme curl up to him, each taking a side, licking his tears as they roll down his cheeks. Esme nudges Kurt under his hand and leads it to his forgotten handkerchief. Tabitha nudges the opposite hand and leads it to the book.

Esme has always been the more compassionate of his two familiars.

Tabitha has always understood him the most.

"Right." Kurt wipes his eyes and his dripping nose one more time before he gets started, needing a clear head if he's going to get this right. With his ingredients lined up in order on the table, he needs only two more items. He leaves Esme and Tabitha so he can go get them - a picture of his ex-boyfriend, and a live, white dove. He only keeps one dove in the house. He hates to do this to her, but he swore when he bought her that she wasn't a pet, which is why he never gave her a name. He carries her into the kitchen in a tiny wooden cage, which he hangs from a hook overhead.

Tabitha, on the other hand, has always had a name for her Master's white dove.

Tabitha calls her _lunch_.

Kurt pulls up a stool and sits, propping the photograph – the only one he could find without himself in it – against the knife block where his ex's treacherous face can stay within Kurt's view. He needs to keep a firm hold on this spell's direction. Hexes are powerful, but they can also be tricky. They can take on a life of their own. If this one gets away from him, he doesn't even want to think of the damage he might unintentionally cause. Kurt tries to find his center, quiet his mind and focus on the picture in front of him, but he doesn't want to look at it. He doesn't want to see the face of this lying, cheating, no good, fucking son-of-a …

Kurt takes a breath in and lets it out slowly, erasing those thoughts from his mind.

Part of his brain begs him to stop, take a bath, have a glass of mulberry wine, head to bed, and reconsider this in the morning. But that part gets stomped flat by Tabitha rubbing up against his arm, her quiet purring encouraging him on.

Kurt takes another deep breath and starts over again.

He puts a few drops of rose water inside the shell, then strikes a match and sets the liquid on fire. He reads out the spell from the book – his mother's book, an heirloom of witches from her side of the family, only children for generations, of whom he's the sole male – adding each ingredient one at a time and speaking words over them so that their purposes may unfold.

"Pain of my pain …" He adds a pinch of _Belladonna_.

"Sorrow of my sorrow …" He adds a drop of jezebel oil.

"May you never know peace. May you never know joy …" Another root, another herb, a dried flower from the grave of an unrequited lover (not his, but someone's), crushed between his fingers, all make it into the fire.

"May the other half of your soul never make itself known to you …"

He stands and takes the dove from her cage. She flutters, trying to escape his grasp, but his calm becomes her calm, and she folds her wings, settling into his cupped palms. Kurt sits with her, staring at the photograph, a lump growing in his chest.

"May there never be love enough to fulfill you …"

He holds the bird gently in his hands, preparing to wring her neck, a splinter of his soul loosening to fall away once he does.

As the fragrant smoke from burning herbs and dissolving oils fills the air, his mind starts to wander - not a good thing when a witch casts a spell, but he suddenly can't stop it. The smell of the cedar that he added makes him think of the man he'd hoped to find someday – the man he'd dreamed of finding his entire life. A man Kurt knows can't exist.

A man who can sing like Elvis, and dance like Fred Astaire.

A man dark and mysterious; with raven hair; eyes like golden honey; and a voice smooth as satin, that can touch Kurt inside and out, even to his very bones. A voice that can make him swoon. A voice that can make him fall to his knees, his heart aching to serve.

A man who deserves him – who is loyal and caring, but maybe a touch on the dangerous side.

Okay, _more_ than a touch.

A man Kurt can watch musicals and old movies with, who wouldn't make fun of him if he started to cry.

A man Kurt can spend all weekend in bed with, reading poetry to, talking to, making love to …

A man with confidence, with power of his own so that he would never ask Kurt for any favors.

A man who would protect him.

Maybe a man who might hear about the evils Kurt's exes had done to him and go on a massive killing spree.

Kurt laughs when that thought enters his head. He doesn't know where it came from. He's never even considered that before. But it's enough to break the tension, enough to make him fully comprehend what he's doing. He looks at the dove in his hands and sighs.

"He's not worth it, you poor thing," Kurt coos to the confused creature. "He's not worth this type of sacrifice, or _any_ sacrifice. Not yours, and definitely not mine." Kurt runs his fingertip over the dove's feathers, regretting even entertaining this. "I've given him two years of my life. That's enough."

Kurt drops a kiss on the dove's head and stands to put her back in her cage, but Tabitha, watching the bird with intense yellow eyes, has other plans. If her Master has no use for a perfectly good dove, then Tabitha doesn't see why she can't have it instead. The cat leaps for Kurt's arm, paws outstretched and claws extended, swiping for her snack, but she slices Kurt across the face instead.

"Tabitha!" Kurt yells, losing his grip on the dove. She flies to the hanging light fixture above Kurt's head and perches there, cooing with relief. Tabitha makes to leap to the top of Kurt's head in pursuit, but he grabs her in time and drops her to the floor with a scolding hiss.

The inopportune struggle causes Kurt to become sloppy, to forget for a single second that his spell is still being cast as long as the violet fire within the abalone shell burns. He misses a drop of blood falling from the scratch on his face and into the potion before it burns completely away. When that drop of Kurt's blood, a token of his power, hits the purple flame, it ignites … and then it explodes. A bright red fire sputters, spitting sparks of every color in all directions. It scares Esme out of her wits and knocks Kurt to the floor. He lands on his back with Esme square on his chest. She comes to her senses and races out of the room, knowing full well that she's not prepared for whatever might come next.

"What the living …?" Kurt coughs, curling on his side and covering his head with his hands as bottle after bottle from the island flings itself to the floor and shatters on contact with the tile. "Jesus H. …"

"Well, well, well …" A voice, but not Kurt's voice. A low voice. A smooth as satin, undeniably sexy voice. A voice from out of nowhere. "That was … _impressive_."

Kurt pushes against the tile with his feet and scrabbles to stand, putting his hands up in defense. He accidentally knocks the shell of ashes to the floor in his haste, and with it, any hope of an easy counter spell lost amidst the mess and chaos. Kurt peers through the haze of colored smoke and sees a man.

A man with raven hair and golden eyes, marred only by the red pupils dimming steadily into black.

"Who … who are you?" Kurt asks, his voice unsteady. He's sure he's been knocked stupid by the fall, or unconscious because of the explosion.

Or maybe he's just plain dead.

Regardless of the circumstances, there's a man in Kurt's kitchen – a man who wasn't there before. The man brushes at the sleeves of his sports coat as he walks through the broken bottles and their spilled contents, around the kitchen island, eyes honed in on Kurt, and _only_ Kurt.

"Please, forgive me." The man smiles as he comes closer, reaching out to take Kurt's hand. The sound of his voice makes Kurt feel helpless to pull away. "Where are my manners?" The man lifts Kurt's hand to his mouth and kisses it, his lips lighting fires along Kurt's skin where they touch. "My name is Blaine. Blaine Anderson. And I believe you summoned me."


	2. Chapter 2

**So, I know that this story has kind of been on hiatus, but after seeing Darren Criss as The Music Meister on The Flash, it kind of kicked my brain back into gear. I hope to have more of this up when I can, but I hope you enjoy this second part. Let me know in the comments. The more I get, the more I'll write :3 Warnings for sexual content, what might be considered dub-con but not entirely, and mention of Finn (alive and well). Inspired by this photo post/158717047727/klaine-fic-the-summoning-part-2-rated-nc17.**

"Who … who are you?" Kurt pulls his hand from the man's grasp and a strange spark of pain arises from letting go. Kurt's hand _wants_ to go back, wants to hold this man's hand. Still, Kurt takes a step back, then another as he thinks of a way to escape. What spell can he use? What incantation will distract this man so he can make a break for it? "Why are you here?"

"Like I said," the man says, picking debris off the sleeves of his black coat, "my name is Blaine. And I'm here because you summoned me."

"Th-that's … that's impossible," Kurt argues, walking backward through the door to his living room. _If he can make it to the fire escape, then maybe …_ "I'm … I'm not strong enough to summon a _person_."

"Oh darling" - Blaine smiles, sinister but sensual, dangerous yet dapper - "you have no idea how strong you truly are."

"It wouldn't matter if I was strong or not," Kurt says, steadily moving away but finding that he doesn't necessarily _want_ to retreat so badly. The more Blaine talks, the less Kurt wants to be far from him. "You can't possibly exist. I can't conjure flesh and blood from thin air. I can't create a _person_."

Blaine pauses his pursuit to adjust his cuffs. "Well, I'm not exactly a _person_." He peeks up at Kurt through long lashes, hears Kurt's mind working in the silence.

"Then … then what are you?" Kurt shakes his head to erase a few ideas he knows can't be possible.

"You might call me a demon." Blaine shrugs. "You might not. The truth is, I have many names, none of which matter because the only name you need to know me by is _Blaine_ , and with any luck" – Blaine takes Kurt's hand again and brings it to his lips, kissing his knuckles at the pause between his words. The touch of Blaine's skin against his makes Kurt feel sublimely whole – "you'll be saying it over … and over … and over."

"I don't … I don't understand," Kurt stammers, too baffled to catch on, even with the help of Blaine's suggestive tone and his lust blown eyes. Mesmerizing eyes. Eyes that abandon their golden hue and become almost black, pulsing with a hypnotic blue radiance, a shade that mirrors the color of Kurt's eyes. But before Blaine can explain in more detail, or _demonstrate_ (as he wants to do), his gaze falls on something that makes his brow pinch and his eyes burn with a crimson flame.

"Is this _him!_?" Blaine growls, dropping Kurt's hand and grabbing a framed picture off the mantel. "Is this the asshole who broke your heart!? I'll tear him to pieces! I'll rip the flesh from his bones and leave him in the desert for the vultures to finish off!"

Kurt watches in horror as the glass in the frame warps beneath the demon's gaze, the corner of the photograph underneath turning black and smoking.

"No!" Kurt snatches the frame back. He blows on the glass to cool the fire, then hugs it to his chest, keeping the image out of Blaine's sight. "No, that's … that's my stepbrother, Finn. And he's a wonderful, amazing person who'd never hurt anyone, so you … you leave him alone!"

"Are you sure, Kurt?" Blaine asks, less skeptical than amused. "Because I can tell if what you say is the truth. I'm a part of you. I know your thoughts. I can feel your desires, your honesty, your _lies_ ..."

Offended, Kurt pulls himself straight. "So, tell me, _demon_ , am I _lying_?" he asks. He doesn't appreciate being doubted like this, not by a demon, and not in his own home. He stares Blaine down with defiance in his eyes. Kurt knows little about demons, but the ones he's read about tend to play tricks, even on those they claim loyalty to. They cause mischief for the fun of it – mischief that can be _deadly_. But they also respect power. If this demon says Kurt has power, a power he himself has not realized, then he'll use it.

Blaine quirks a brow, his skepticism turning to anger, but his amusement spreading. "No," he decides with a nonchalant sniff. "No, you're not."

"Good." Kurt's voice shakes even though he prayed it wouldn't. "Then as long as we have that settled ..." Kurt goes to put the frame back in its place on the mantel, then re-thinks himself and stuffs it behind the sofa cushion, out of sight, which then leads Kurt to ask himself _how did they make their way to the sofa so quickly?_

"Don't you worry, darling …" A seductive smile pulls Blaine's lips, that spellbinding glow returning to his eyes "… I won't harm a single hair on his, or anyone else's head, who hasn't done you wrong. You have my word."

"And how much is your word worth?" Kurt asks, not seeming to notice that he's being herded, backed over to the sofa and now sitting down. "You're a demon, and demons are evil, aren't they? How do I know I can trust you?"

"It's not so black and white as all that," Blaine says, maneuvering in front of Kurt, kneeling on the floor between his legs. "Like I said, you summoned me. You created me. I am part of you. So, my word is your word. There is goodness inside of me, just as there is _darkness_ inside of you."

Kurt shakes his head. He has an answer to that, an argument, but he can't seem to vocalize it. Trying to voice it feels like being drunk and trying to sing the lyrics to "I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major-General". This man's voice - this _demon's_ voice - siphons away his will. It makes him compliant. But as Blaine leans over him, toying with his belt buckle, those eyes of his still working their magic with a final vestige of Kurt's common sense howling to be heard, Kurt begins to think _why not_? Why not have this fantasy? Why not indulge this gorgeous creature? He's there because of Kurt, right? Kurt can feel his own power flowing through him. Kurt's still not entirely clear on what spell he cast that brought this demon to life, but some spells only last 24 hours. What if this demon goes back to whatever realm he came from by the time tomorrow night rolls around? Or what if he turns to dust? After all that Kurt's been through over the past two years with his snake of an ex-boyfriend, doesn't Kurt deserve this?

Doesn't he deserve Blaine?

Kurt's power obviously thought so, because there Kurt was in his kitchen, thinking about someone just like Blaine, and (literally) poof! Here he is.

"I know that you're confused," Blaine says, inferring Kurt's thoughts. "I know you still have some fight left in you, but you've had a long day, haven't you? So, sit still, pet," Blaine whispers using a compulsion that Kurt gave him, with Kurt's own power behind it. Kurt may be able to resist the sway of an unrelated witch or wizard, but his own power is a little more difficult to withstand. It's bred from his family line, anchored deep within his soul. His will longs to obey it, no matter who wields it. "Don't move."

"Y-yes," Kurt stutters. His body becomes heavy, locked down to the sofa beneath him as if he's been tied there. He feels Blaine, knows he's undoing his belt and unzipping his pants, but he can't lift his head to watch him.

He can't move his hands and arms to stop him.

But why would he want to?

"Of course," Kurt murmurs. "Whatever you say- _ah!_ "

Kurt feels Blaine's mouth on his body. He feels Blaine suck his flaccid cock, and he becomes instantly hard – _inhumanely_ hard. He feels Blaine doing more than that, as if the tongue stroking his shaft were somehow also making its way inside of him, lapping softly at his rim, opening him up. He's about to convince himself that that's not possible, but, at the moment, anything _could_ be possible, and that excites Kurt.

The combination of Blaine taking control and Kurt feeling unable to move overwhelms Kurt, but in an erotic way. His temperature soars from first day of spring to Long Island summer. He's overcome, helpless against an attack that he surrendered wantonly to.

Surrender. That's the perfect word for it … and Blaine seems to know it, too.

"Yes," Blaine hums, pulling away to torment the wrecked man sitting above him, writhing into the couch. "Surrender, darling. Surrender to me."

"Yes," Kurt gasps. "Surrender … I will … I will surr- _oh_! Oh … _nngh_!"

Blaine chuckles once before he pulls Kurt in again, and Kurt feels like he's sinking, drowning. Blaine's lips are like fire, his tongue otherworldly, and his mouth so hot and wet, it doesn't feel like flesh. Kurt squirms at its push and pull, the way it moves not only around him, but through him as well, lighting fires, then putting them out just to reignite them, only hotter.

"Yes …" Kurt chants, over and over till his mouth goes dry. God, he wishes Blaine would kiss him. But then he'd have to stop what he's doing, and Kurt thinks that if he does stop before Kurt gets the chance to finish, he'll up and die. But no sooner does Kurt think of kissing Blaine then there's a mouth on his, the same tongue tracing the veins on his cock licking over the seam of his lips and pushing itself inside. Kurt doesn't know how Blaine does it, ironic since magic brought Blaine here – _Kurt's_ magic. But Kurt has lived in the presence of non-magic people for so long, there's still a bit of the unreal to this experience, a smidgen of _this can't be happening_. But it is. It _is_ happening. Not five hours after Kurt caught his ex cheating on him again, after coming home alone thinking that he'd never find someone else who'd ever love him and, really, how bad would it be to employ the services of a sex worker anyway?, he's trapped on his couch beneath the sensual, astral projecting mouth(s) of the man of his dreams.

Not too bad for an otherwise average Saturday evening.

"G—god," Kurt moans, head rolling back and forth, the only thing he can competently seem to do. "J—jesus Christ …"

Blaine pulls off Kurt's cock with a huff and a grimace. "Do you think that you could be so kind as to move away from the religious stuff and start moaning _my_ name, darling? I mean, God and his kid claim to do some miraculous things, but I don't see them down here right now. Do you?"

Kurt swallows. He's tempted to laugh, and if Blaine would go back to blowing him, he would, but the longer Blaine's mouth remains separate from his cock, the more Kurt feels like he's about to explode … and not in the way he was hoping.

"I'm … I'm sorry, Blaine. Please … please, Blaine. Please … don't stop … Blaine …"

Blaine grins, his eyes flashing blue again, then red, his body absorbing more power every time Kurt says please. It's an old-fashioned magic, one that most people tend to overlook, but it's still an effective one.

The power of a polite request.

"Sure," Blaine says, returning to Kurt's cock with a single suck. "Whatever you want, darling."

Blaine becomes the devil himself in his efforts to finish Kurt, to bring him to a pinnacle so high that falling from it won't just exhaust him, it'll knock him unconscious. After casting such a strong spell, Kurt will need his rest.

And Blaine needs Kurt passive for a while so that he can move on to the next stage of his plan – _keeping_ Kurt happy.

Because a happy Kurt, the way Blaine _wants_ him happy, may someday bring the world to its knees.

"Oh, Blaine … Blaine, I'm … I'm cumming …" Kurt strains against invisible bonds as his body fights to move – not to get away, but to touch. He wants to run his fingers through Blaine's hair, massage his shoulders, cup his cheek.

"I know, darling," Blaine whispers into Kurt's mind. "I know you are. Go ahead. Let go." And for every desire Blaine feels, he plants an impression in Kurt's mind - of Kurt's fingers on Blaine's face or in his hair, Kurt's nails scratching at the shoulders of Blaine's coat, or Kurt's hand on the back of Blaine's head, holding him still with Kurt's cock throbbing down his throat.

"There you go." Blaine leaves imprints of his words in the folds of Kurt's brain while he swallows down more of Kurt's precious power. He's not draining Kurt dry. Power is like blood – constantly flowing, always replenishing. Kurt conjured Blaine. Blaine will always be lesser. But the more he takes from Kurt, the more Kurt needs to rebuild … the more powerful Kurt becomes.

But Blaine knows what to do with Kurt's power, whereas Kurt hasn't fully tapped his potential. It never interested him. He was more concerned with fitting in, being accepted.

If Kurt had ever embraced his power, the bullies who plagued him throughout high school would have never been an issue.

Kurt could have turned them into human soup with the blink of an eye.

Kurt gasps silently, lips parted, soft pants slowing to even breaths. He doesn't even have energy enough left to say _thank you_ when Blaine's done. He simply turns his head to the side and falls fast asleep.

Blaine looks up from Kurt's lap with a satisfied grin. He carefully tucks Kurt's spent cock back into his pants and zips him up.

"Kurt? Kurt, are you still with me?" Blaine's not really trying to wake Kurt up. He knows the extent to which he's zapped Kurt's energy, but it's for his own good. Kurt needs to recharge if he's ever going to unlock his gifts, be all he can be and all that good stuff.

Blaine lays Kurt down. He slides a pillow underneath Kurt's head and covers his body with the throw from his couch. He brushes the hair from Kurt's forehead and kisses him lightly across the brow, sealing his sleep, making it deep and restful.

"Nighty night, pet," Blaine says. "Everything will look brighter in the morning, I promise, when we start our new life together."

Blaine had wanted to put Kurt to bed and lay down beside him, but he decides that since he'll be staying with Kurt for the indefinite future, he should take a look around, acquaint himself with his new domicile. He's tempted to still find the bedroom since it, for certain, will be chock full of incites into Kurt's life – his comings and goings, his job, his day to day activities, his passions and pursuits. But instead, Blaine decides to investigate the source of tonight's conflict. He walks back to the kitchen - the room where he was birthed, so to speak - in search of clues.

"Impressive," he repeats, chuckling at the extent of the havoc Kurt wreaked in his kitchen. Ash has settled on every surface, painting Kurt's cream-colored kitchen a harsher grey. Broken glass crunches underfoot. The remains of roots and dried flowers disintegrate with wisps of breeze as he passes by. A thick book, pulsing with energy, sits in the corner, unharmed. Blaine knows just by looking at it that he won't be able to touch it. Even with Kurt's power within him, it answers only to Kurt. It has a mind of its own. It can't be conned. It won't be deceived.

Blaine smirks at it.

"We'll see," he says, moving on as if its existence doesn't intrigue him.

A lick of flame flickers in the center of the floor, eating away what's left of the smoke lingering in the air. Blaine steps on it, smothering it with the sole of his shoe. " _Very_ impressive, my powerful little minx." Blaine breathes in through his nose, sampling a whiff of the herbs and oils Kurt used in his spell, their intentions unraveling as his brain deciphers each one. "My _vengeful_ little minx." Blaine crouches in the midst of the mess, his eyes falling on something that Kurt's power has led him to. It's mostly scorched, crinkled at the edges, but the smug face staring at him remained intact. An aura surrounds this picture, a signature – one of hatred and anger and sorrow.

 _Bingo_ , Blaine thinks, brushing away the ash coating the image to get a better look at his victim. He can make out eye color, hair color, shape of face … everything he'll need to identify this man, find him on the streets of New York.

"Well, well, well …" Blaine smiles, twice as smug as the asshole staring back at him, completely oblivious to his impending fate. "Look who we have here."


End file.
